I'll Be Home For Christmas
by MattieWinter
Summary: "When he'd gone into hiding in that dark and dank apartment in north Northumberland, the last thing he expected from himself was to actually miss people..." Taking place the first Christmas after his fall, Sherlock makes a decision to sate his loneliness and inspire him to work in hopes of a better future. Implied (atleast onesided) JohnLock


I have a friend who tempted me into the writing Sherlock. So I did this for Christmas. I've never actually written Sherlock or read a Sherlock fanfiction before so this was traveling into new territory. Please Enjoy.

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_I'm dreaming tonight of a place I love_

When he'd gone into hiding in that dark and dank apartment in north Northumberland, the last thing he expected from himself was to actually _miss_ people from that flat in London with the empty refrigerator, stacks of books only made to look neat though not as they were all filed exactly as he would categorize them. But in this little apartment, shack of four walls and ceiling, he sat there feeling almost alone. He'd spoken not to a single soul in months. The books he'd checked out from the tiny local library with a stolen card (as desperate times called for desperate measures) had already been read not one, not twice, not even ten times but more. He wanted someone to talk to, to argue against, hypothesize and figure with. That was, when he wasn't busy obsessively mapping out Moriarty's web of contacts, employers, employees. It was huge and the only thing keeping him moving and distracted from the world. The neighbor lady was no threat to his hiding, but it was only one certain person that he knew he'd even want to speak with.

_Even more than I usually do_

He sat there, thinking and taking a long drag from his cigarette. He was anxious. He wanted to investigate, sniff around a body and think about something that wasn't him. Taking down the remains of Moriarty kept him occupied more than anything else as it was now his only pursuit. Though, having that as his sole "Case" wore him thin, mostly when he hit a dead end or it bore him. He wasn't getting what he needed with it most of the time, so he got it the only other way he could. John wasn't there to stop him and therefore, felt no need to stop.

The neighbor lady was kind and old. Even for someone old she was **old**. He suspected a long life doing agricultural and herding work that forced exercise and just about everything that helped to extend life into her life style. She had a husband, deceased as evident by the two solid bands on a chain around her neck. He, her deceased husband, looked like him and smoked too. It would explain the immediate kindness from her, leaving a hot meal a day at the door with a few cigarettes wrapped up nicely. That and he'd seen others move in and neither a word nor meal was extended to them.

_And although I know it's a long road back_

He wanted to go back, soon, but he'd need to wait, probably a couple years as the safest thing to do was to let his name, his image, be forgotten. That was safest for him, but more importantly: John. It was only the beginning of a hellish wait. He could tell by the way he had already finished his fourth cigarette and it was only noon. She only gave him five or six. Though the food… the food would last. It was good and well-seasoned. She reminded him of Mrs. Hudson. He wondered if John was eating. That man hardly ever ate anything unless he was sat down with and instructed to. Maybe the limp was back? Yes. It would be back. There was no way it wasn't. Did John know that he'd left the cane, collapsed, in a cupboard? By now probably, with Mrs. Hudson there, digging through the flat and making him eat at least when she was there.

_I promise you_

Sherlock had made up his mind. He'd go for Christmas, if not just to stand across the street and smoke for a few minutes then leave. He'd have to cut back and smoke all but one cigarette a day. Save them for what he knew would be the crash after his little journey. All he had to do was wait for just a few months. In that time he'd work hard, longer, faster… if not just to pass the time and tear down ever reason he couldn't see the inside of 221B Baker Street.

_I'll be home for Christmas_

It, the time, had come for his bold action considering the little that had passed, and Sherlock was… excited. Maybe something more? He didn't, for once in his life, know nor care that he didn't understand what he felt. He'd taken enough money for the train ticket. There were more people and it was less personal than being stuck in a small cab that would charge more anyways. People would keep him occupied.

_You can count on me_

When Sherlock had arrived in London, it had been covered in snow, just as the rest of England had been. He'd turned up his coat collar and pulled down the flaps on his stupid hat, one that looked near identical to the ridiculous one he had owned before, well, "committing suicide". Walking through the streets, he couldn't help but to look around and take in the people. Not because they were people, but he got to analyze them, know their story with a glance over. Practice what he prided in and was unable to do for so long.

_Please have snow and mistletoe_

As he walked along the street on his way to 221B Baker Street, children ran past. Well, not children but to him they were young. They threw snow from the pavement despite the complaints of adults around them. He looked to doors and where blank wood normally was, wreaths hung and strings of lights were entwined threw the branches of every few trees. He'd thought to himself how he'd never actually celebrated a Christmas whole heartedly. It was never his thing, superfluous gift giving to impress people, wasted electricity, and carolers breaking your concentration as you tried to think and they continued to sing those obnoxious songs. He wondered if John enjoyed these things. John was a relatively normal human and probably was grateful to see another Christmas instead of being in Afghanistan.

_And presents by the tree_

When he'd gotten to the little flat, he was greeted with dark windows and a locked door. John was out, with friends most likely, maybe even with Molly. She was a nice woman and he hoped that they spent time together. It would be good for the grief. Sitting on the bench, he decided to wait. There wasn't anything wrong with it, just waiting. He wasn't much of a patient person but it would be a skill he would need to learn, and learn well for the years to come.

_Christmas eve will find me_

Sherlock had waited, for hours probably, watching people walk by and smoking one cigarette after another. When John walked up to the door later that evening his suspicion had been confirmed. The cane was back and the limp was actually worse than the first time he'd encountered the man. John looked… pained, much thinner as well. So he hadn't been eating all that much? Well, Mrs. Hudson did what she could. John could be a handful at times.

_Where the love light gleams_

John hadn't seen him. Or, maybe he had but didn't recognize his form, hair grown shaggy. It left a bad feeling in his chest. He pulled off the stupid hat. Not a single passing glance at the thing had been spared and his hope of being called out evaporated. When the man had unlocked the door, leaning heavily on his cane for support as he dug through his pockets, Sherlock watched as everything looked pained and stiff. He got in the building. One minuet, sixty seconds he had to wait for the upstairs lights to go on. That was an awfully long time for him to try to make it up the stairs. Waiting there in the cold, anticipating and maybe even worried, Sherlock let out a sigh of relief as a tree illuminated with the living room. Smoke puffed out the top of the building. John was starting a fire in the hearth. He probably had garland hanging up too. Sherlock wanted to see the inside of the building. He wanted to see how it changed and how it was decorated, how John decorated it. He wondered what had become of his bedroom as well.

_I'll be home for Christmas_

Smiling, he put out the dying stub in the ground. It joined the several other that he'd put out throughout the day when he was waiting. Snow fell lightly was he turned to walk away and there was nothing more that could be done for the day in terms of watching John and Christmas. All he could do is go home and think about what he'd seen there, in that window and on the door step. John, one day he'd be home. But for this Christmas? Not at all.

_If only in my dreams_

The train home was worse that it had been into London. Long, empty, and the few that were on had insisted on coming up to him and asking him questions. He wasn't supposed to be asked questions. He was supposed to do the asking. Asking about murder, weather, times, corpses and everything else that was interesting. It would be a while, but one Christmas, he'd be home. One Christmas he'd see John. Until then, he'd dream of a time when they'd all be safe, when he'd have to hear John nag at him about smoking because the habit would only solidify, Mrs. Hudson's presentence, Molly, Lestrade… Mycroft. No. Not Mycroft. He was the only person he ever had occasional contact with as he owed him for the help in faking his own death.

Until then, he'd continue detangling the web that led to his fall and thinking about life and the Christmases to come.

_I'll be home for Christmas_

_You can count on me _

_Please have some snow and mistletoe_

_And presents by the tree_

_Christmas eve will find me_

_Where the love light gleams_

_I'll be home for Christmas_

_If only in my dreams_

_If only in my dreams_

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Thank You

-MattieWinter-


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